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Updated: May 24, 2025
A letter to James D. Reid, written on December 21, will show that the quality of his mercy was not strained: "You may recollect when I met you in Philadelphia, on the unpleasant business of attending in a court to witness the contest of two parties for their rights, you informed me of the destitute condition of O'Reilly's family.
After O'Reilly's first meal he was sure it came from the latter place; even suspected that the odor flattered actual conditions. But it was the best hotel the place afforded, and Senor Carbajal was the most attentive of hosts. He was a globular, unctuous little man, this Carbajal; he reminded O'Reilly of a drop of oil.
The moment he saw O'Reilly's face, he knew there was no hope he asked no question: the surgeon came out, and told him that in consequence of having broke a blood-vessel, which bled internally, Sir Herbert had just expired his mother and sister were with him. Ormond retired he begged the servants would write to him at Dr. Cambray's and he immediately went away.
Thank Heaven we have an angel of mercy awaiting us, and she will know how to make him well." When the troop resumed its retreat Esteban Varona lay suspended upon a swinging bed between O'Reilly's and Judson's horses. Although they carried him as carefully as they could throughout that long hot journey, he never ceased his babbling and never awoke to his surroundings.
This habit of bathing at fixed intervals of a week or two, regardless of conditions, might be, and probably was, responsible for all of O'Reilly's rheumatism. Mr. Carbajal, for one, knew better than to overdo the thing. He had never suffered an ache or a pain in his life and his teeth were perfectly sound, as he demonstrated by beating vigorously upon them with his mixing-spoon.
"What little I overheard wasn't bad," Esteban declared; then he took O'Reilly's hand. Esteban was a handsome boy, straight, slim, and manly, and his resemblance to Rosa was startling. With a look engaging in its frank directness, he said: "Rosa told me about your meetings here and I came to apologize for our stepmother's discourtesy.
At the last moment, however, just as he was about to plant his feet upon solid earth, he was halted by two men who rose from a bench where they had been idling. They carried the tasseled canes of the Secret Service, and O'Reilly felt his heart jump. With a murmured apology one of them relieved the negro of the valise while the other began to search O'Reilly's person for concealed weapons.
The colonel came forward swiftly and laid a hand upon O'Reilly's shoulder, saying: "So! You were right, after all. Esteban Varona didn't die. God must have sent us to San Antonio to deliver him." "He's sick, SICK!" O'Reilly said, huskily. "Those Spaniards! Look what they've done to him." His voice changed. He cried, fiercely: "Well, I'm late again. I'm always just a little bit too late.
In fact, up to this moment, I have never read a line of the biography for which I wrote the introduction.... My only acquaintance with Mr. O'Reilly's history before he came to America was the vague information I had that, for some political offence, the exact nature of which I did not learn, he had been exiled from his native land to a penal colony, from which he afterwards escaped.
I don't remember doing it before in joy or sorrow. Here goes another tear! Sorry! I couldn't help spilling it on you. Shan't happen again." O'Reilly's face was close to hers. She smiled up at him. Everything seemed strange except that he should call her darling. That, somehow, was not strange at all. Nor was it strange that his head should be bent over her upturned face.
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